Chapter 1

The air feels thick. Its presence is strong in my mind, and as the light breeze flows through the city, I can sense the air moving around the buildings, through the streets, and in and out of people’s lungs. It’s weird, being able to feel the insides of people’s lungs. It’s disturbing to know exactly how much empty space is inside a body, even my own.

It’s all those stray particles I’m entangled with. Atoms of carbon and iron and oxygen and aluminum and copper ... all pieces from objects I’ve entangled over the past few months or years, molecules that have rubbed off, chipped off, or just evaporated with wear. Every item I entangle leaves a little trail of where it goes. My costume is the worst offender. Fabrics wear down just by existing, and wherever I go there’s a light mist of particles behind me that I’m just barely aware of. I’m long overdue to untangle them. They’re distracting, but I try to tune them out. I really should clean up my messes.

But that takes time and effort, and it’s boring to sit in my bedroom and meditate, erasing particles from my consciousness. So I put it off. It’s easier to just get used to them. I’ve got better things to do. Well, at least more interesting things to do. Like right now. I’m on patrol, standing in full costume on top of a building on New Hampshire Avenue, watching the sunset.

I love nights like this; The warm summer evenings with long sunsets. The oppressive heat of the day is over, and the warm welcoming night approaches. The city is busy, with throngs of people out enjoying the late evening as sunset stretches well past eight. Of course with anything that brings a large number of people, there’s always the glut of scum who come out to take advantage of it. But this particular night it’s been quiet. Nothing too harsh. No major fights or crimes.

“Hey! Stop! That’s my purse!”

As I said. Nothing major. Just the occasional purse snatching.

I glance over the edge of the building and catch a sight of the perp. I sigh. It’s Chet again. When will he learn? He’s running full tilt away from a woman who’s chasing him, and there’s no way she’s going to catch him. Not with those heels. He’s carrying a purse, and it does NOT go with his outfit. I pick a spot in front of him.

VRAMMMM!

“AAAAHHH!” He screams as he skids to a halt in front of me. I love moments like these.

“Drop the purse, Chet.”

He panics, spins, and starts running. Why does he do that? Why does anyone ever try to run away from me? I’m a teleporter, for Christ’s sake! You can’t outrun me. I give him a moment and wait for him to look backwards. They always do that. They look backwards when they run to see if I’m following. Must be an ancient evolutionary thing. Doesn’t matter. That’s the moment I wait for. I pick a spot in front of him to catch him as he runs into me.

VRAMMM! FLIP! SLAM!

He’s on the ground, his arm twisted up and high as I pin him down with one foot on his back.

“I said, drop the purse, Chet.”

He lets go of the purse. The woman runs up, reaching us. She’s breathless already, and she stares at me with this wonderful stunned expression of amazement. “Quantum Knight ... Thank you!” she says. “Thank you so much.”

“You may want to take your purse.”

I pull a pair of handcuffs from The Singularity and slap them on Chet’s arm. “Ow! Damn it, woman!” he screams. “Why are you always busting me?”

“Why are you always doing something that needs busting?” I retort, kneeling down and pulling his other hand back, cuffing him. As I stand and pull him up, I turn to the woman. “Stick around. You need to talk to the police.” I pull my cell phone from The Singularity and give it a moment for it to locate itself. I travel faster than the phone system expects anyone to travel, and it takes a moment for the system to figure out what the hell happened.

“Don’t you got anything better to do than to pick on me?” Chet complains again. “Shouldn’t you be doing something bigger, like catching REAL criminals?”

This is tiring. I can’t figure out why I have to defend myself for stopping him. I hook my cell phone to my costume and slam him against the wall. I stare him in the face and summon a shuriken. His eyes go wide and his skin pales as I turn the blade in my hand, shining a reflection into his eyes.

“Listen, I would LOVE it if I never had to deal with you again. And I CAN make that happen, but my options to make that happen are limited. So either YOU do something so I don’t have to deal with you again, or I can do something.”

That shut him up. I call the catch in to the police. It always takes a few minutes for them to arrive. This is the part of the job I always feel most awkward about, standing around, waiting for the police. I always draw a crowd of onlookers. Eyes are on me from every direction. Cameras are pointed at me. I can feel every presence, every beam of light that reflects off me and into an eye or camera. I can feel the waveforms collapsing from superposition to defined waves. I don’t like cameras on me, and I habitually prevent the collapse for those waves heading towards cameras. The people can see me, but no one can get a clear picture of me.

The crowd applauds me, and I secretly love it, but don’t show it on my face. Wouldn’t be right for my image. A group of young men are eying me, checking out my body and egging each other on. One will hit on me in the next few minutes. A short pair of eyes approaches me from behind.

“Excuse me, Miss Superhero lady?” An eight year old girl tugs on my arm. Her mother gasps in panic, as if her daughter just pulled the pin on a grenade, and comes running up to us.

“I’m so sorry! Ashley, you shouldn’t...”

“It’s quite all right,” I say to her mother. To her daughter, “Can I help you?”

She has a small diary which she holds up to me. “Can you sign my book?”

Autographs. I sigh internally but show no response. Autographs always remind me of that kid back in the seventies who got killed by a supervillain because he had a superhero autograph. Bastard villain thought he could get some intel through handwriting analysis. It was just one incident as far as I know, but I always think about it, and when I do sign autographs I use a block letter handwriting, far different from my normal style. Protects the fan, and it’s also easier to read. But that’s not the real problem with autographs. If I say ‘yes’, suddenly EVERYONE has something to sign, and I’m here for hours not doing my job. But if I say ‘no’, parents get disappointed, it hits the blogs and I get to read about how much of a bitch I am.

“After the police come, and I do ONE autograph a day.” There. A compromise. I don’t get trapped in a signing session, and the parents don’t think I’m too much of a bitch. Just enough of a bitch.

It’s all in the attitude, really. When I’m in the costume, I am the boss. People don’t mess with me, and people don’t challenge me. I can’t let up the air of authority. Once I do, it’s a loss of power and respect. I like to think I inspire people, and it’s moments like these when an eight year old girl asks for my autograph that let me know that I do. At least I hope I inspire her. It’s either that, or she just has an account on Ebay.

She nods and smiles to me, understanding that she is lucky, special even. She scrutinizes me for a moment, and asks “Are you married?”

The question solicits giggles and chuckles at the nerve of the innocent query, and it leaves me in a delicate situation. The answer is ‘no’, but I don’t want the boys to get an opening, and I don’t give out personal information.

“Are you?” I ask the girl.

She looks horrified. “No!” she defends herself. “Yuck!”

The crowd’s laughter buys me enough time to pull out my cell phone and send a quick text message to Matilda, my publicity agent. ND INSP “ 4 8YR GRL. It’s the part I hate the most about autographs; coming up with something inspirational to write. I can never think of anything.

“So...” one of the boys says, the one with the most courage out of his friends. “ ... When do you get off work?” He’s leering at me, and it’s the first moment that he’s looked at me without staring at my breasts.

I give him the once-over. “Long after your bedtime, kid.”

His friends burst out laughing, and one chucks him on the arm. “Dude, she like totally BURNED you!”

“Shut up, Ted!”

The police arrive, thankfully, and transferring Chet and his victim to their custody burns off a couple minutes. I teleport my cuffs off Chet and put them back in their place back home. It’s a cool thing; I have keys for those cuffs, but never use them. My cell phone buzzes during the arrest, and I check it. Thank god, it’s from Matilda. Then I check the message.

LIGHT THE SKY

Light the sky? Is she fucking kidding me? Stargold used that in a speech when he won his Supreme Court case back in the fifties, and that was a great speech, all about how sometimes all it takes to be a hero is to inspire someone, but that’s the best she can come up with? It’s been done to death. Unfortunately it’s all I got to work with. I sign the girl’s book with “Light the sky, Ashley! - Quantum Knight”, give her a firm handshake, and teleport to the rooftops, taking a couple unnecessary jumps to get there so she can watch me leave instead of just disappear.

Inspiration. That’s one of the duties of a superhero, to inspire others. I’m not sure how good I am at it. I take a moment and wonder what’s going to happen with Ashley, what our chance meeting will do for her. Will she be inspired to stay in school? Not do drugs? Become a doctor? Stay off the pole at least? I wish I had that kind of inspiration when I was younger. Would have done a lot less drugs.

Light the sky. To burn so bright you outshine the moon and illuminate the city. Easy for some heroes. They can actually produce light. Stargold could. Hyperion can. Snow Angel can do that too. The most amount of light I ever produce is when I entangle an object. It sends out a brief burst of light. Hardly lighting the sky. More like flashing it. But lighting the sky is all about inspiring people, sending out the message that anyone can become anything, that you can overcome any obstacle with enough determination and intelligence, and that sometimes you can do things you don’t know you can do. Nice idea, even if it doesn’t always work.

Now, you want to talk about someone who lights the sky, talk about Annie Freidman. She lights the sky, literally. When she and Joey go out flying, which is like every night now, she glows in rainbow colors and leaves this comet tail behind her. It’s beautiful, really. Joey’s powers are based on love, and you can tell that they really love each other.

I’d love to try that sometime. The flying, that is. And maybe the loving.

They have a weird life now, all three of them. Two superhumans and a paraplegic all living together. Tricia is going through her Cosmic awakening, which is a royal bitch to go through. I know, I went through it too. It’s like super-power puberty. When I was going through it I was teleporting and super-positioning things randomly for months, but she’s got time-travel powers now. She’s got the next several months of dealing with all sorts of weird shit I can’t even begin to imagine. And Joey is, well, God knows what he is. If the preliminary report from Technarch is anything to go on, his power levels are off the charts. I can’t imagine the troubles he has, keeping that power in check. He’s terrified of hurting the girls, which is good I guess.

He used to be a superhero. He was Omega Boy. Not any more. He says he doesn’t want to be a superhero, which I find bizarre. Who doesn’t want to be a superhero? It’s fun. Oh sure the hours are long and you can get killed any day, but that’s true of any other job. And I’ve seen him in action. I think he has what it takes to be a great superhero. I think he just needs some inspiration.

But oddly enough it’s Annie I find the most awe-inspiring. I’ve never told her this, but I’ve always felt uncomfortable around the handicapped. I feel sorry for them, guilty even for being fully able-bodied while they need help to get out of bed or do other simple tasks. I never know what to say, or what to do. I feel awkward. But Annie handles her challenges with charm, style, and grace, and makes me feel welcome and comfortable. It’s inspirational actually.

I once heard that the handicapped don’t like that word. “Handicapped”. They prefer “disabled”. Apparently “handicapped” is supposed to come from the phrase “cap-in-hand”, which meant a beggar, which they consider demeaning. But then I heard Annie use the word, and I asked her about it. She said that story was complete bullshit, not to mention demeaning to beggars. “Handicap” actually comes from “Hand-in-cap”, a 17^th century betting game, and the word was re-purposed in gambling circles to horse-racing, where they would load an exceptional horse with extra weight so it could compete with other horses more fairly. So the modern interpretation should really mean “Here is a person that was so awesome that God decided to cut her in half so she could more fairly mingle with the rest of you poor shmucks.” Spend an evening with Annie, and you realize how true it is.

They should be out again soon, Annie and Joey. I look forward to watching them fly. But I can feel that they’re home now, back in their apartment in Adams Morgan. All three of them are there, back from their trip. Well, at least their jewelry is: two bracelets, a crucifix, and a dog collar; items I’ve entangled. I should visit them, but I wanted to give them some time to get settled again. I’m surprised they’re not all in bed together again. I can feel that they are in different rooms right now. Usually the three are clustered together, and there’s a lot of bouncing going on.

My cell phone buzzes. I look at the number. Speak of the devil, it’s Tricia. I answer it. “Hey girlfriend! How was New York?”

“Quantum Knight? I ... I think I need help!”